


Sympathy for the Devil

by JadeyKins



Series: Devil's Backbone [2]
Category: Constantine (TV), Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Alcohol, Grief, M/M, Mentions of Major Character Deaths, Vomit, post A Feast of Friends, relationships are established
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeyKins/pseuds/JadeyKins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine's done something terrible, again. So he follows through on an old and tired routine--find the nearest bar and get as trashed as possible. All he wants is a drink and a moment alone, but somehow two men he thought were a one-night-only affair wind up walking back into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sympathy for the Devil

“Give us another round,” John Constantine roared. He’d’ve gotten up off his seat if he had that much balance or energy left in his body. Fucking bartender deserved a smack to the face for denying a paying patron the right to more drink. In fact, John still had half a mind to push himself up and reach across the perfectly shined bar.

The bartender tapped the aged thin green paper laying on the bar between them. “This isn’t enough, John.”

“Hell it’s not!”

The bartender grabbed the bills up and held them in front of John’s eyes. “This is only two dollars.”

John squinted at the bills, which turned into a glare at their betrayal. American money. All the older bills looked the fucking same. Same size. Same color. The only differentiation being the dead men’s faces.

He shoved his hand into his pocket for coins, but stopped himself from pulling any out. Sure in England a handful of change might lead the pursuit of purchasing onwards, but this was America. Might as well throw change at strangers and wishing wells—wasn’t going to do much good in one’s own pocket.

With an exhausted sigh, he leaned against the bar. “Open us a tab then, mate.”

“Can’t do that, John.”

“Why the hell not?” John screamed.

A blue sleeve went past John’s face. The sleeve had an arm in it and the hand at the end had a bill with a different dead man than the one on John’s money. That blue sleeve with the bright bronze buttons.

The bartender took the money, but scowled at John.

“It’s his last one,” a man said. He had a pleasant smooth voice and an I’ll-soothe-this-all-away-sir tone. “We’ll take him out of here after.”

That finally put the bartender into the proper motion. 

John rolled his head upwards to find the owner of the arm.

Captain Jack Harkness stood there, straight and tall with his blue eyes, warm movie-star smile, and fantastic jawline. 

“How on Earth did you find me?” John demanded with almost too many slurs to be intelligible. “I don’t recall giving you my number, much less an address.”

Jack nodded over John’s head. “He knew.”

John swiveled in his seat and tipped over. Jack put hands on his shoulders in order to steady him, so John just let himself lean back against the other man.

Before them stood yet another man—or least he looked like a man. All dark hair and piercing blue eyes and a suit and a trench all too similar to John’s attire to be much of a coincidence, Castiel stood there watching him. For a second, Castiel’s expression seemed to be one of pity, but as John revved up to tell the Angel of the Lord to piss off, he saw past the alcoholic haze to realize that was compassion, not pity.

“How did you know?” John said.

Castiel tilted his head slightly and that expression changed to say, ‘You can guess’ without needing to say a physical word.

“Thought you had your radio off.” John tapped the side of his head.

“He appeared, though I don’t know how. I’m warded.”

“With that Enochian tattooed on your stomach?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John shook his head vigorously. Jack had to catch him under his arms to keep him upright, not that John noticed more than he had nice hands holding him. “Whoever did your art got a letter wrong. Tiny, tiny bit. Fraction, really, but enough for anyone with any kind of power to see right through your measly shell of protection. Not that anyone with any power will actually do a damn thing. Sit, watch, and observe, yeah? That’s all your fucking kind—”

Castiel surged forward and clapped a hand over John’s mouth. A brightness charged his blue eyes. “Don’t speak against Heaven this night. Not with what you’ve done. They’re watching. Closely.”

Despite the complete wash of alcohol in his body, John still had enough reason left to his mind to see the sense. He sagged in Jack’s grip and nodded, only then did Castiel remove his hand.

Words were said over John’s head. Something by the bartender, something by Jack and Castiel, and then Castiel was sliding underneath John’s arm and helping him stand. They were halfway out the door before John remembered his coat. He tried to turn ‘round, but Castiel kept a firm hold on him and said something in his ear about Jack settling everything and grabbing his stuff.

Walking was more like swimming with the way his vision twisted with each step and how far off his equilibrium had shattered. The cold night air helped soothe the burning ache in his throat, but that smell of Atlanta city—of cars and cars and buildings and asphalt and so many people—repulsed him. Maybe that was the booze’s fault, really. Either way, John fell to his knees and wet, slick sick splattered the pavement beneath him. He barely kept himself from falling into it as more pushed up from his stomach and out his throat like a thing with its own free will. Certainly he had no control on it.

Castiel bent beside him and ran those cold fingers of a dying man through John’s hair. A perverted comfort since John was too warm now.

Hell had every right to take him and Heaven had no business sending someone along to comfort him. Not tonight. Not any night again.

John shut his eyes tight. He wanted to tell Castiel to fuck off, but when he began to open his mouth, more vomit threatened to pulse forward, so he had to keep his mouth shut. 

He deserved everything coming to him for what he’d done, but not this mercy and compassion. Unfortunately, he didn’t remain in enough control of his faculties to argue his case.

************* 

Light burned at John’s eyes despite the fact that he kept them closed. He’d done his best to ignore the brightness for a few minutes now, but he could hear others moving around and they seemed to want to talk and that was ruining his ability to seek the sweet darkness of sleep anyway. However, first attempts to open his lids proved fruitless. His eyelids were simply too fucking heavy to move.

The fuckers wouldn’t stop talking though.

“Shut. Up,” John said. He had to fight to get the words out of a throat that had more in common with sandpaper than flesh. Oh, his arm wasn’t easy to move either, but he got it up over his eyes and found more blessed darkness.

Heavy footsteps on those bloody stairs rattled through John’s head. They stopped suddenly and Chas called out, “Who’re you?”

“Captain Jack Harkness and—”

“A friend of John’s,” Castiel said quickly.

Chas’s footsteps continued, but at least he got down the stairs finally.

John realized he had to be strewn out on the leather couch in the middle room. Comfortable enough spot, but he wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep here in the middle of operations. He ground his teeth together until the salvia build-up threatened to make him choke up whatever pathetic remnants he had in his stomach.

‘Cept as he thought of his stomach, it clenched together in painful emptiness while simultaneously becoming the epicenter for nausea.

And this whole effort was wasted because John could still hear his now-dead-friend’s screams. Still see his face. Still feel his hand clawing at John even until the last. Oh, John had stayed for it all because that was the right thing and in a long line of terrible things, he could do the right thing by his mate for once in both their lives.

Paper crinkled. Chas must’ve brought groceries. At least there would be supplies if John decided to leave this couch ever again.

“You look familiar. Have we met?” Jack asked.

John was about to open his mouth to say something biting and sarcastic about Jack’s apparently shoddy two-thousand-year old memory, but Chas spoke first. “Flint.”

“Michigan?” Jack said.

“Yup.”

“You got shot.”

“So did you.”

John swung his legs off the couch and stood up. He stumbled over his feet and then nearly over Jack’s chair—which was not entirely his fault because Jack had dragged that chair over to that spot so it was not in its normal location. As he lurched towards the kitchenette, he threatened, “Everyone’s saving grace right now will be if you had enough foresight to purchase—”

Chas pulled a carton of cigarettes out from one of the paper sacks on the counter and then he pulled out a bottle of aspirin.

“You are my best mate,” John said. He tore into the carton and pulled out a new pack of cigs. “Which puts you in the running for most likely to die, by the way.”

With a frown, Chas got him a glass of water. 

John struggled to get the cigarettes open and again as he went to find his lighter. Chas, good man that he was, opened the aspirin and dumped two pills out onto the counter for John to consume. John snatched them up. 

“Can I ask why we’ve got guests?” Chas said.

“You can. I don’t know.” John spun and squinted through the dimly lit room at Jack and Castiel. While Jack had taken up a chair between the couch and the fireplace, Castiel stood on the opposite side of the fireplace. “What are you doing here?”

“You don’t remember anything from last night?” Castiel said.

“I remember going out and getting a drink.” John took a long drag off the cigarette. His aching mind wasn’t offering up easy answers, but enough alcoholic binges had given him a bit of practice at tugging for memories that were buried under layers of suppressed haze. “You came to pick me up. Said you were told to.”

“We were,” Castiel agreed.

“Thing is, he doesn’t operate like that. Directly told and with a location to boot? Doesn’t add up.”

“The rules say he can’t act like that with mortals.” Castiel stared into the dull flickering fire. “With family, it’s different.”

“You are one giant loophole seeing as how you’re one of them but you influence events down here all the time,” John said. “No wonder you’ve nearly broken the world a few times.”

Jack glared at him.

John shrugged and finished the cigarette. “Who among us hasn’t caused a disaster or two?”

“Me,” Chas said.

“Train derailment,” John reminded him.

“That was your plan.”

John shook his finger at him even as he walked away. “That is a fair point, but does not take away the blame of the action.”

Blame. Newcastle. No one could take that off him. Ever.

“Why am I shirtless?” John asked suddenly. Best to keep his mind from that gaping hole threatening to swallow him. “Did you try to take advantage of me? One time does not make promises forever.”

Jack smirked a little at the attitude and said, “You vomited on it.”

Castiel let out a single laugh.

“Man puking on himself amusing?” John teased.

“Something Jack said last night,” Castiel replied. When John frowned in confusion at him, he continued, “‘He’s playing the wrong part from the Exorcist.’”

And just like that, the threat of a gaping hole changed to a psychic plunge into an abyss of guilt John had avoided like the plague. The shift in his stance and expression dropped the level of almost warm amusement into a buck of ice-cold tension so fast that John could feel it trying to drown him.

Without a word, John grabbed the nearest bottle of hard liquor, his trench coat, and ran up the stairs.

At least there was no fucking sunlight out here. The day had a thick gray film of clouds covering overhead, so John didn’t have to tolerate even moderate sunlight. His rush of adrenaline had carried him up the stairs and down the side of the cabin, but he had to lean against the wall as he tried to control his breathing. He tried to juggle the pack of cigarettes for a new one while holding onto the bottle and digging out his lighter and shifting his coat from a hand to over his arm or something and that wasn’t going to work at all. Shaking, he sagged against the building until he was sitting on the ground. He sorted the coat first—getting it on around him—and then the cigarette.

He felt a presence rather than look over to see who was cruel enough to follow him. When the person hovered just outside of his peripheral, John was forced to look up.

Jack.

John frowned up at him. “Expected the Angel.”

Jack sat down beside him. “He sent me up here.”

John went to open the bottle, but Jack pushed his hands down. “Let me have it, love.”

“Not yet.”

“I have a splitting headache and things I am doing my very best to forget, so don’t get in the way of my numbing agent or I will put such a hex on you that you’ll regret ever seeing my face.”

“No you won’t.”

“You’re right,” John said wryly. “You’ve seen this terrible mug twice now. You’re bound to start that whole regret thing all on your own soon enough. No hex required.”

“What happened to make you like this?” Jack asked. 

“Sex, black magic, and rock ‘n roll,” John replied with a self-hating smile.

Jack pursed his lips.

John took a long drag off the cigarette. “Bad decisions leading to worse consequences.”

“Could you get a little more specific?”

“No offense, mate, but while you are a fantastic one-night shag, you and your boyfriend are just that.”

“We stayed up all night talking about how to—”

“Just talk,” John interrupted. “You don’t want me involved in that. We’re all likely to die. Or worse. That’s what happens to everyone who fights by my side. Hell takes up residence and ruins their lives.”

“You’re grieving,” Jack said.

“Are you as smart as you are pretty? So far, doesn’t seem that way.”

“Keep insulting me and I will take every ounce of liquor out of your safehouse.”

“I’ll just go get more.”

“Not if I activate the time-loop trap.”

John squinted at him. “How do you know there’s a trap like that?”

“Not everything I’ve found is alien,” John said. “And after the fall of Torchwood, I had to find someone to keep them safe.”

“You knew Jasper?”

“You think you were in any position to tell us where to drive last night?”

John leaned his head back against the cabin. “This is all one tangled web, isn’t it?”

Jack let him have the silence and the fresh air for a few moments before he asked softly, “What happened?”

“I lost someone,” John said without looking at him. “A friend. And losing’s not the right word. I murdered him.”

“How?”

“I bound a demon inside him and let it eat him to death.” John rolled his head so that he could see the judgment that was bound to cross Captain Jack Harkness’s face. “He died in pain and misery and all I did was hold his hand as he went.”

Jack finally took his hand off the bottle.

John unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He stared out at the woods because that was going to be easier than whatever came out of Jack next. People discovered the truth and they ran. Zed had, given enough shouts from John about wanting to be left alone during the long wait for the death. Zed was likely to be back in a few more days despite John’s best efforts though. She didn’t seem to understand that she needed to stay the fuck away for her own safety.

After a long moment of quiet, Jack reached over and plucked the bottle from John’s hand. Before John could complain, Jack tipped it back and took a very long drink. 

John arched a single brow.

“I know why they sent me.”

“You’ve got experience forcing a group of well-loved friends into a ritual that damned a girl and scarred your mates for the rest of their lives? Happen to torture any friends to death lately? How about leading them into thinking that their lives were worth meaning because they were sacrificing themselves for the greater good?”

A sadness filled Jack’s eyes. “I’ve convinced more people to die for this planet than years you’ve been alive.”

“I’m older than I look,” John said.

“Not to me. I can tell.” Jack took a turn staring off into the woods. “Is that all?”

“Is what all?”

“Your sins.”

“No,” John said through a puff of smoke. “Only the tip.” He took another drag. “Why?”

Jack said nothing.

“You told me it was you for a reason. Care to share, or are we just going to stare off into the distance like proper gentlemen?”

Jack took another drink and then let out a long breath. “My brother murdered two of my friends and I put him in a cryofreezer—though that exploded and I honestly don’t know if he’s a corpse beneath the rebuilt plass or he’s roaming out there waiting to try and destroy my life again.”

“Can’t be blamed for psychotic siblings.”

Jack shrugged.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re an expert in this particular area. I’m beginning to think these Angels don’t know what they’re doing.”

“I led my lover into a stupid move that got him killed.”

“My friend begged me to cut his throat.”

“I murdered my grandson in front of his mother,” Jack said. He tilted his head to watch John’s reaction.

Those blue eyes were serious. Dead serious. Not a hint of lie or joke. John couldn’t stop staring at him. “Why?”

“Remember when the whole planet’s children spoke in unison?”

“Bloody weird. Never did figure out why. Was it really aliens?”

“Yeah. And I needed someone with a connection to be the epicenter of the feedback frequency that would bring down the threat. My grandson was all I had.”

John kept eye contact with Jack long enough to let that compassion and understanding he’d seen in Castiel the night before shine through, but not so long that either of them broke down crying. He twisted away just before the tears would’ve fallen and cleared his throat. With a careful hand, he reached over and stole the bottle back from Jack. 

“We are two very damned men.” John took a swig and then held the bottle back towards Jack.

“Yeah.”

John stubbed out the cigarette on the ground.

“Sort of makes sleeping with him ironic,” Jack said. “Literally the closest we’ll ever get to Heaven.”

John smirked. “Makes it more fun.”

With a laugh, Jack agreed. He stood up and held out his hand for John. “Come on. Heroes don’t get the luxury of wallowing in self-pity.”

“You have gotten me far wrong if you think I’m anything near hero material.” John took his hand anyway and let Jack help him up.

“Sounds like you’ve got two Angels in your corner.”

“I could have a whole choir and still be fucked.”

Jack smiled a little sadly at him. “I know the feeling.”

They were still holding hands. A warm, reassuring touch.

The clunk of the old truck on the dirt road broke the small trance John and Jack were falling into.

“Shit,” John muttered.

“Friend?” Jack asked.

“Don’t ever seem to know,” John said. “But I do know that I want a shower before I even talk to her.”

“I know you’re English, but maybe brush your teeth too.”

John rolled his eyes and headed for the door. 

Jack clapped hands on his shoulders as they walked. He leaned in and said, “Maybe she’ll run if you tell her to help you clean the backseat of my car.”

“You’re kidding me,” John groaned. “You’ve left it in there?”

“We got most of it out, but puke has a way of getting into cracks and crevices and this SUV is new.”

“Is it too late to say no to a time-loop trap instead?”

“I got something that’ll trap you while cleaning the car.”

“That is down right evil.”

Zed finished parking her truck and threw open the squeaky door.

John rushed for the door. Few more minutes and then maybe he could face whatever Zed insisted upon this time. 

Maybe he’d get very lucky and she’d be so distracted by Jack and Castiel that she’d leave him be until this hangover passed.

Oh, that was a worse option in the end, most likely.

Was his punishment to continue choosing between bad options for the rest of his days? Because that would not bode well for anyone, especially not anyone he liked.

And despite his efforts, John kept finding more people to care about in his life.

Hell would always have a spot with his name embossed on it.


End file.
